


Wash My Hands

by Summer_Story



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, In where Loki learns a lesson in why it's just better to accept an apology, It'll make sense in the end, Sorta character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:56:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summer_Story/pseuds/Summer_Story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell and taste. The victory he thought he had. It was nothing. This over-whelming sense of alone made him want to die. There. At the spot he stood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I’m really just experimenting. So sorry if this comes off weird or strange.

It was everywhere. On everything. On him. His hands. Even in his mouth. It was bitter and copper. And everything he wasn't expecting at this victory.

That’s when he felt his emotions crack. As he stared at blood coated hands. He let out a whimper. More animal then human, as he began to wipe them on anything. But it only caused the blood to smear more. And before long he was coated in it and he wanted to vomit.

The smell and taste. The victory he thought he had. It was nothing. This over-whelming sense of _alone_ made him want to die. There. At the spot he stood.

His eyes looked down to the prone figure of his brother’s body. Blood still coming from the wound he had given him. He could sense his brother’s companions around him. Moving quickly to transport him. Believing there was chance his brother lived.

He wanted to scream at them. Cry. Rip them to shreds. His brother was _dead_. And his own self-hate and stubbornness had refused to let him accept his brother’s forgiveness.

And now.

_Now._

Everything he held dearly was gone.

Dead.

Frozen and no more. Because he was too stubborn to let everything go. When he felt hands upon him, he did not fight. Nor did he fight when all of his armor and weapons were stripped of him and he was placed in a holding cell. He looked at the bare surroundings. And for once something made sense. His death would be a cowards way out for what he did. So eternal prison seemed like his best choice. His _only_ choice.

And he accepted it with a dead smile.

_______

He wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping. If that’s what he wanted to call it. It was more like a world of hell. With nothing but the events of his brother’s death replaying in his head, as well as the pleasant memories of before, when all was well on Asgard.

He remained still where he lay. Trying to recall the more pleasant moments of the nightmare he had endured when he heard the sound of movement. He didn’t move, deciding that he let the person in the room speak first. He heard movement again and wondered if he should speak. Though he had no memory if he voice still worked or not. It had been weeks, but felt like centuries to him, since he had last spoke.

“Loki.”

He jerked where he lay. That voice. The voice that haunted him in his nightmares. Even when he was awake. He moved to cover his head and keep the voice away, when he realized he was no longer in his prison cell. The bed he lay in too warm with sheets too soft.

He finally opened his eyes.

He was in a bedroom. But the lighting was poor and he could make no shapes in what light was given. “Loki.” the voice murmured again as he caught movement out of his eye. Never before had his nightmares taken physical form. He pulled the covers about him tighter.“Loki. Will you not look at me?” the voice whispered as Loki let out a pathetic whimper.

“Go away. You are not real.” His voice cracked. Broken. Old and unused. And full of terror.

“My brother…I am alive. I was able to survive. Will you not look at me and let your eyes prove it?” the voice murmured as he forced himself to open his eyes and look at the figure.

A light had been turned on over head, and Thor’s large figure stood at the end of the bed. He was terrified of this imagine before him. His brother was different. Older maybe. And this imagine clashed with the nightmares that haunted him.

“How do I know you are real?” He asked, his voice still weak and raspy. His brother gave a feeble smile. “I can only show you one thing.” His brother murmured and proceeded to pull up the Migardian shirt he was wearing.

He could do nothing but flinch and pull away from the sight. It was clear not even an Asgardian could pull away from the attack he used, for upon his brother’s chest and torso was the sight of a twisted scar. White and raised. He turned his gaze back and stared in horror. “Did I…” His voice faded out, as his brother pulled the shirt down. “The doctor here at the facility did the best he could do. But I am rather fond of the scar now, Brother. So I plan to keep it.” his brother stated as his face paled and he looked away. “Why are you so proud of a moment where you could have died? Why do you not kill me? Rid yourself and the world of me?” He whispered, broken, as he felt his brother sit upon the bed and felt him embrace him.

“Because Loki,” Thor murmured against his temple. “You are worth it. And I am willing to do whatever I can make you well again.”

And for the first time, in a long time, Loki felt whole.


End file.
